


Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town!

by DixieDale



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27655570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: What could make Peter Newkirk, never a Ho-Ho-Ho! type of guy, loosen up about the Christmas merriment Andrew Carter seemed intent on spreading around?  Maybe figuring out it could be worse.  Maybe a LOT worse!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. All I Want For Christmas (is for everyone to shut the bloody 'ell up about it!)

{"All I want for Christmas is for everyone, particularly ANDREW, to just shut the bloody 'ell UP about it!"} Peter Newkirk fumed silently to himself.

Newkirk was about to strangle Andrew Carter, had threatened to do just that at least three times each of the past four days since he'd gotten out of the cooler. 

Waking up in the mornings to the sound of the American warbling 'Santa Claus is Comin' to Town', hearing him getting everyone going on in detail about the gay old Christmas celebrations of the past, listening to Andrew chatter about what they could do to celebrate this year even considering their less-than-ideal location and limited resources - that was all trying enough. Then, after lights-out, having to endure that just-barely-audible voice from the bunk directly below his - "You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm tellin' you why, Santa Claus is comin' to town!" - it was all enough to drive him straight out of his everlovin' mind! 

He resolutely turned his mind from the painful prospect of another night of that serenading, only to find himself caught up in Andrew's latest enthusiasm.

"Ya know, Schultz would be a pretty good Santa Claus. I mean, he's already got the shape for it. He doesn't have a beard, though, and that uniform kinda spoils the whole effect," Andrew chattered on. "But if we could find a wig and a beard, maybe a red suit of some kind . . . We could ask him. Schultz is a pretty nice guy - I bet he'd go along!"

Newkirk gave him a jaundiced look, not sure why Andrew had to keep nattering on about Santa Claus and having someone, Schultz apparently, dress up and go from barracks to barracks waving his arms around and start ho-ho-ho'ing like a raving lunatic. 

Yes, it was December, but he'd hoped the whole place, especially Andrew, would forget the connection with Christmas and all that lot. He had enough to contend with, he thought, still being bruised from the mission two nights ago, along with being chilled to the bone from the time down in the tunnels trying to get those papers finished for the next crew coming in. Hell, still being chilled to the bone from his time in the cooler. 

He wouldn't have begrudged that - two weeks in the cooler wasn't anything unusual, not for him, the resident 'bad boy of Stalag 13', but the timing was really, well, bad. 

{"If 'e'd waited just another couple of weeks, I'd just be starting my time, would be safely tucked away, sleeping on that 'ard bench, counting the cockroaches, 'aving myself a gay old time, with no danger of being caught up in all of this! I'd not 'ave gotten out til after Christmas was well over with! But no, the colonel 'ad to play 'is little game, setting ole Klink off to 'ave 'is little temper tantrum and toss me in there just in time for me to get out to face THIS!"}

He was ticked off about the whole thing, but not quite ticked enough to be wishing Kink had given him a full MONTH in the cooler. Yes, that would have gotten him safely past Christmas, but even that small emotional comfort wasn't enough to make him want to endure that cold hard place for that long. He'd done it before, would probably do it again, the way things went, but it wasn't something he figured he'd actively try for. He could occupy his mind in there for two weeks, keep his focus; longer was more of a challenge. No, better to skip that if he could.

But now, he wondered if this, Christmas in the barracks with Andrew Carter and his incessant merriment, wasn't going to be even more of a challenge. He'd managed the prior year well enough, even making small special gifts for his team mates, but this year he just couldn't seem to bring up any of that 'ho-ho-ho' spirit. Seemed he had only a limited amount of that built into his system. (Actually, he would have thought he had none, but then Andrew Carter seemed to have tapped a previously unknown reservoir of that element.) That seemed reasonable to him, there only being that small bit lingering somewhere inside him, and in that case, last year's supreme effort had drained the last of what he DID have.

Well, no one would argue with that assessment, except possibly Andrew Carter. Somehow Carter had just the most improbable, entirely unrealistically favorable image of the talented but admittedly-difficult Englishman! It made no sense, of course, but there was no dissuading him of his illusion. Still, almost everyone else (including Newkirk himself) would agree, Newkirk wasn't really a 'ho-ho-ho' kinda guy in the first place, never had been, most likely never would be. 

Peter did have a few (very few) pleasant memories of that 'most wonderful time of year', though those were related to Alfie Burke and Alfie's sweet Maisie, or with Maude and Marisol at the pub, not his own family. His own father had been a rum sort, hadn't allowed any 'wasting of the blunt' for such things (seeing as how that might tap into his drinking funds or his gambling funds or his general do-whatever-pleases-me funds), his mother not willing to go up against him when he'd been drinking, which was most of the time. (The senior Newkirk hadn't been much on singing or general jolliment either, of course). After their mother was gone, their father had seemed to drink even more, and Peter was now in the position of not trying to go up against him in an effort to keep Mavis out of the line of fire. Of course, that meant taking the brunt himself, but at least it kept Mavis relatively safe.

Not that that worked all that well, but he did try, til he finally gave it up for a hopeless cause, realizing he was only making Mavis's position even worse, and ran off with the circus for a highly-educational if unconventional sabbatical. (The circus people, while quite welcoming of young Peter, hadn't been much for Christmas merriment either.) Mavis was tucked under neighborly wings and though she missed Peter, did fairly well. Seems Alfie and Maisie, Maude and Marisol too, could temper the old man's nonsense better than an adolescent son. Peter always swore mucking out after the elephants and horses, working the various rigs and acts he was put to, and living a rough and hard life on the road, including bunking in with a chimpanzee who drooled in his sleep and snored along with it - all that was a hell of a lot easier than dealing with the elder Newkirk even in his rare sober moments.

So, Peter's enthusiasm for Christmas was rather like mist rising from the damp filthy cobblestones in a back alley back home - sour, thin and tenuous at best. He got chided for that by the others in the barracks, his lack of enthusiasm, even his antipathy to any Christmas cheer. His friends just couldn't understand that, kept trying to pull him into their own approximation of Christmas joy, or whatever they could cobble together in a German prisoner of war camp. After a few tense episodes, though, they'd learned to leave him alone with his temper and his sulks. 

Kinch had finally said, "I suppose he has his reasons. Even if he doesn't, even if he's just being a - ". Kinch, being a kind man, a patient man, didn't finish that sentence. Any word he came up with would have been neither kind or showed any great degree of patience, so better to just not say anything more, he figured.

LeBeau wasn't willing to accept that, still tried, but very carefully, knowing that to push the wrong button, not knowing what was written on that button, what it might be attached to, could be disasterous. It was, to his mind, a little like minding a wood stove and deciding to increase the warmth by feeding it from the cans seated in the corner labeled, simple, FUEL. Whether gasoline or kerosene or any other such flamable substances, the result was always explosive, if differing in intensity. He'd SEEN Newkirk go off the deep end, flame sky-high; he knew it could be dangerous for the Englishman to feed that temper of his with any extra fuel, perhaps equally dangerous for anyone around him as well. 

However, Andrew Carter wasn't willing to let it go. Oh, he didn't start out with the deliberate intention of annoying his friend, not really. Didn't want to hurt him, certainly; he'd NEVER want to do that! Still, it wasn't right, not getting SOME pleasure at the idea of Christmas. Maybe Newkirk wasn't religious; Carter had never seen any signs he was, not that everyone showed that right out in the open. Heck, he didn't even know if Newkirk considered himself a Christian in the broad sense of the term. Carter couldn't say he was either, more following the teachings and beliefs of his Sioux medicine man grandfather than those of his mother's people. Still - the rest was pretty neat - bright colors, music, gifts, being with friends and family - all that should brighten even a Grumpy-Gus like Newkirk was being right now! So he wasn't ready to call it quits, not this early!

Newkirk glanced apprehensively over at Andrew, just knowing that momentary silence was only a build-up to some scheme Andrew had for pulling him into that 'Christmas spirit' he kept nattering on about. 

The only Christmas 'spirit' Newkirk had a taste for was the kind that came out of a bottle, though he knew to be cautious about that kind as well. He knew from experience with his bastard of a father - too much drink could lead a man to do things, say things, feel things - all better left undone, unsaid, unfelt. He had enough of that to deal with WITHOUT liquor mixing in.

And then there was that OTHER Christmas 'spirit', one a little more personal. Still visited him, it did, that 'Christmas spirit', about this time every year - the spirit of the man he'd killed that gloomy Christmas afternoon so long ago. 

In fact, Newkirk had come to expect the annual visit, welcomed it even, and when available, had a glass in hand to offer a mocking toast, along the lines of "kind of you to pay a visit w'en you could be merrily waving your pitchfork and dancing around with the others in that fiery pit I 'eard tell you're likely to 'ave been sent to. No, not quite ready to join you yet; thanks for the invite, though. Expect I will, sooner or later. Be glad to 'ave a few more words with you then, about our past differences. Never DID feel I quite got my point across, you know. Wouldn't mind another try at it."

Slit the man's throat, that's what he'd WANTED to do, though not before he gutted the bloke, but thinking of the mess and what would be required to clean it all up, he'd settled for a single thrust through the ribs into the heart when the man had opened that door, when Newkirk saw that small half-dressed figure lying unconscious on the bed. Well, it made no sense to kill the bloke until Peter knew for SURE where Mavis was, now did it? After all, he might need to be asking the bastard a few questions, starting with 'w'ere the bloody 'ell is my little sister?'.

Goniff Grainger, a pal of his from those days, had offered to do the job for him, having a little more experience in that line than Newkirk had, as well as having firm opinions about men who got up to such doings, but Peter had grimly declined the offer. Goniff had killed for personal reasons, in retaliation for actions taken that were past any forgiving, and requiring, in his mind, a harsh meting out of rough retribution - that was well enough, and Newkirk could and did respect that. This, though, this was personal to HIM, and he couldn't see laying that on his friend's plate.

He HAD taken Goniff up on a few pointers about the angle of that knife, the proper entry point, along with the offer of keeping watch, and later helping him dump the body, though, and making sure no traces would lead back. AND help getting the drugged and drowsy young Mavis, who'd luckily never had a real notion of what was going on, over to Alfie and Maisie's place. 

Peter never regretted any of that, other than to sometimes wish he'd finished the job by heading back home and offing that bastard of a father of theirs, the one who'd thought it a good idea to earn drinking money by selling Mavis to the toff in the first place. 

They'd discussed it, Peter and Goniff, over at a quiet corner table in Maude's pub. After a couple of drinks to celebrate and settle their nerves, they'd discussed doing for the elder Newkirk AND the elder Grainger, both being right bastards and well earning such an end. They'd awakened in Maude's back bedroom, above the pub, each lad with a head the size of a balloon, and there was something about the look in Maude's eyes that made them wonder if she'd overheard, had slipped something into their drink to put them off any such dire action. They never discussed it afterwards, though, and Newkirk put it out of his mind - until each December brought it back again.

The fog lifted and he was back in the cold, drafty barracks, listening to Olsen talk about traditions in his Scandinavian family; apparently Andrew had already finished his spiel (at least for this go around).

Now, Newkirk felt a momentary temptation to join in all the stories, the Christmas memories the others were sharing, and tell one of his own. Oh, not one of the few nice ones he could bring to mind - no, he was thinking about telling the story of his visiting Christmas spirit and how that all had come about. 

{"Maybe that'll shut them up!"} he said to himself in self-righteous indignation.

Well, since they'd suffered through a reading of 'A Christmas Carol' over the past several nights, that little guy on his shoulder (the one with horns and a pointy tail stretched out comfortably, totally at his ease - not the one with the halo and white robe and wings perched haphazardly on the OTHER shoulder struggling just to keep his balance on what obviously was a slippery surface!) thought that might just be appropriate. 

{"Maybe next time they get the bright notion of pushing me to join in, they'll think better of it!"} he snarled inwardly.

Scowling down at his coffee cup, wishing it held something bearing a little more resemblance to actual coffee, or maybe something stronger, he inhaled to speak up, give them good reason to leave him alone, when he felt a phantom hand slap him upside the head. That little guy in the white robe had one heck of a wallop, quite similar to the one Maude used to deal out when he was being more of an ass than she felt was called for. He flushed, remembering, realizing what she would have thought about him sharing that story, {"well, maybe not the sharing, but the cause - wanting to stop their asinine goings-on about Christmas and spoiling their fun along with it! No, she'd not have been in favor of that, Old Maudie."}

"Newkirk?" came hopefully from Andrew. Boy, it would be really neat if Peter would join in, just a little, enough to show he wanted to be there, not back in the cooler. Cause, it sure seemed to Andrew that that was what Peter was thinking, and that was just sad. If the guy would just relax a little, just join in, he'd SEE how much it could help, being with friends, sharing stories - help with the loneliness of being away from your family at Christmas time. Well, having Peter there sure helped ANDREW forget the loneliness! Yeah, the other guys too, sure, but Peter . . . Well, Peter just had more of an impact!

Newkirk blinked, looked at that eager face, felt a warning tap-tap right above his temple, and sighed. {"Oh, alright, Maudie! If I must, I must, I suppose,"} he told her reluctantly. That warning tap turned into a gentle smoothing of his hair, and he found a fond smile coming to his face. That was Maudie, right enough, stern in what she thought you should be doing or not doing, but quick to give a kind touch when needed.

"Well, I DO remember one Christmas time, down at the pub, after it closed down after hours. Maude and Marisol . . ." and if it wasn't a particularly jolly story, still it had an element or two of warmth about it, enough to show he really WAS trying. And for Peter Newkirk, that was a huge accomplishment, considering how he felt about that time of year. {"The things I end up doing for Andrew. . .!"} 

He even ended up stuffing his head in the rear corner of his bunk after lights-out, wrapping his arms around his head to prevent him hearing that happy little voice doing the 'Santa Claus is comin' thing, because he knew if he didn't do SOMETHING to keep himself from hearing, he was gonna start screaming at his friend to "shut the flip UP!!!!, Andrew!" and he really, really didn't want to do that. He found himself shaking his head ruefully and repeating, {"the things I end up doing for you, Andrew!"}


	2. Company For Christmas

It was disappointing, at least to Andrew Carter, that Sergeant Schultz was headed home for a two week leave. That meant the whole notion of the man, dressed in a red suit complete with white wig and fake beard, throwing open the door to each barracks, shouting 'ho-ho-ho!' wasn't going to happen.

The immediate arrival of Acting-Sergeant Krempts left him not hopeful, just a little wistful. "I mean, if we had more time, got to know him, maybe we could ask. But that's really a personal thing to ask of someone, ya know? Still, he's maybe even more perfect than Schultz! Look at those rosy cheeks and white hair! And that huge duffle bag, it looks like it's just jam-packed with toys, doesn't it??!"

"More like 'is lunch for the next few days, Andrew," Newkirk snarked. The man could easily give Schultz a run for his money on the scale, and that bag WAS huge, though the Acting-Sergeant managed it easily over one massive shoulder. 

The big surprise wasn't so much that Schultz had been given a long-overdue leave, it was that someone had thought to bring in a replacement in the first place. That the man was as old and even bigger around than Schultz, well, the manpower shortage was well known - old men and youngsters not yet shaving were being called up now. But that the man had the influence to demand sole use of the guards barracks that Schultz made his home-away-from-home? That was highly unusual, as was the large mean-looking black cat trailing in the man's footsteps. Pets weren't allowed in a prisoner of war camp, except for the dogs which weren't pets, just guards of a different nature. Still, there the cat was, and no one saying a word against it.

"You'd think, if Klink though the guy was entitled to privacy, they'd put him up in the Guest Quarters, though how he'd justify putting an Acting-Sergeant in there I can't imagine. Burkhalter would have a fit! But to kick out that entire section of guards, have them bed down on pallets in the other guard barracks, just to give this guy the place to himself . . . I don't know; there's something fishy there. I mean, he's big, but he's not THAT big!" Hogan quipped, though putting on his cap to go see what he could worm out of the Kommandant. Maybe he'd even make a point of strolling past the guards' barracks, the one Acting-Sergeant Krempts was using, see what he could see.

Too bad Hogan couldn't get a glimpse inside, the shutters being firmly in place and locked tight. It would have been an eye-opener, that's for sure! Because, what tumbled out of that big knobby bag when that cord was untied around the top? Whoa! As for being alone? That was another story entirely!

Krempts was busy getting things organized, laying down a few ground rules, breaking up a squabble or two over territory - pretty much what he'd been expecting when he'd suggested this little Christmas romp. That was okay; no one gave him much of an argument, even accepting the bunk assignments without more than a little pushing and shoving and an occasional wedgie. After all, the sooner they all got settled in, the sooner they could start making plans and getting down to having some serious fun!

Hogan got no joy, or information either, from the Kommandant, who was nursing a bad cold and frankly didn't appear to know or care that there was a new Acting-Sergeant running around, or what the arrangements were for the guards or much of anything else. Klink just wanted Hogan to go away, for Fraulein Hilda to bring him another hot water bottle, some aspirin, and another bottle of schnapps!


	3. Christmas Traditions

The advent of Sergeant Hans Schultz on the afternoon of Christmas Eve was a surprise, but a welcome one. That new Acting-Sergeant Krempts, well, there was just something a little off about that guy, and the whole atmosphere around the camp was more than a little freaky! Everyone was on edge, guards and prisoners alike, all snipping at each other, jumping at every slamming door, shying away from unexplained shadows. 

But they were due for a disappointment if they thought Schultz was back on duty.

"No, no, I will be spending tonight and tomorrow morning with my family, but at the hotel in Hammelburg. Someone, I do not know who, arranged that as a surprise. The kinder were so excited I could not say no. For myself, not so much - home is the place -" and he hesitated and flushed and left the sentence and the sentiment hanging in mid-air, knowing these men didn't have the option for spending Christmas 'at home' or with their families and loved ones. Well, neither had he, many a year. This was not his first war, and he was rarely stationed close to his family or had the freedom to visit.

"And besides, since Gretchen has presents for you, she insisted we accept the kind gift of the hotel and meals, but to come here first. She and our kinder are already there, the ones still at home, so I will not stop here for long. Just long enough for presents, but they are to be given out now, while I am here, to each and every man. Except for a few extra she included just in case there are new arrivals, of course. She says that is most important, according to a friend of hers, that you have them today, no later."

Schultz was beaming with delight and pride as he pulled the gifts out of the rear seat.

"My Gretchen, she might not be so good of a cook, but with the needles, ach, that is a different story! And a friend of a friend - one who is part of a sewing club - gave her the yarn, huge sacks of it! which is a wonder for it is not so easy to find now, or so Gretchen tells me! And other friends, they helped, and when it was done, it was . . . Ach, it was wunderbar what they have done!! " Schultz explained with a huge smile on his face. 

And indeed it was! That big bin of socks, no, two bins of socks - hand-knitted, thick and warm, pairs tied loosely together so as not to get separated - was a lovely sight to men looking forward to another cold, hard winter in a less-than-adequately-heated barracks. And, wonder of wonders, there truly were enough pairs for every man in camp, every prisoner, every guard, even a pair for the Kommandant, along with an especially pretty pair in a snowflake pattern for Hilda, and a dozen extra for 'just in case' arrivals!

Olsen looked at the bounty, his eyes wide. "How many people did they have working on this, and for how long??! My mother and sisters all knit, but it would take . . . ". His mind skittered on trying to figure out how long it would take to make THAT many pairs of socks. "Wow!"

Ólafur Egilsson, originally from Iceland, now a temporary resident of Barracks 2, laughed with appreciation at the look on Olsen's face, but he had to agree enthusiastically. It was a formidable task. And the timing was quite impressive too, he thought. 

"Well, at least that means we'll be spared a nasty session with the Yule Cat!" he joked, forgetting for a minute that there were few who would understand the reference.

"The what?" Carter asked, frowning in confusion.

"Never mind, I will tell you later, if you wish. I warn you, it is not so nice a legend as your Santa Claus, but many stories from my country are not so nice, and many center around Christmas for some reason," Ollie, as he was known, explained.

And later, gratefuly pulling on those lovely warm knitted socks, he told them the Icelandic stories of Gryla and the Jólasveinar - Mother Witch and her children, the Yule Lads, who arrived to punish those who did not live up to expectations and to reward those who did. 

"At one time, Gryla was not part of Christmas, but more a representation of the cold and hard winter that was coming, a winter that could so easily take the weak and more vulnerable. In any case, she was known for snatching up disobedient or naughty children, putting them in a sack and hauling them away to make a winter stew for her and her family. My mother used to say it was sad that Icelandic tradition seemed to lean more toward the 'stick' form of incentive for good behavior, rather than the 'carrot', but then she was raised in Sweden, and much prefered the Tómten, who were guardians of the home and homestead and overall much nicer."

He told the fascinated crew about the Yule Lads, all thirteen of them, with the odd and disquieting names. Among those were Stúfur, Stubby, the short one who steals food right out of the frying pan; Hurôaskellir, Door Slammer, who slams doors just to startle people; Gluggagaegir and Gáttapefur, Window Peeper and Doorway Sniffer, who in turn peep in windows or sniff at doorways, looking for things to steal; them and all the others.

The crew glanced at each other uneasily, remembering certain odd things they'd experienced over the past few days - frying pans suddenly empty, not even a smear of grease in the bottom, though LeBeau had dinner well underway only moments before; the door to Hogan's quarters and the barracks' door slamming at strange times, sending them scurrying to check for intruders; strange shadows at the windows and doorways; things going missing that Newkirk SWORE he wasn't responsible for. Klink had been annoyed to the point of shouting, albeit in a hoarse raggedy voice, at "all the people who seem to not know how to keep the noise down when a man is dying!" Hilda had started jumping anytime anyone came near, though whoever was doing that surreptitious pinching, or coarse whispering in her ear, wasn't anyone she could point an accusing finger at.

"Of course, they were supposed to leave candy for you if you'd been extra good, though I never heard of anyone willing to swear to that really happening."

Also Ollie told them about the Jólaköttutinn, the Yule Cat, who lived with the Mother Witch and her children. "That one appears on Christmas Eve to check to see who received new clothes. You see, new clothes were given by those above you - parents or grandparents, perhaps, or, if you were a servant or held employment otherwise, the master or mistress - either as a measure of appreciation for industriousness or as a matter of charitable generosity. If you received nothing of the sort, then it was commonly understood you were either lazy or otherwise not worthy of receiving generosity. The Yule Cat would search all Christmas Eve to see who was who, and if it saw that you had received no new clothes, then when midnight struck, it would go about to snatch you up and devour you as punishment for your failings."

He shuddered, then went on. "Then, of course, there's Krampus. He is not just of Iceland, but of many places, though. Now that one, he's half goat, half demon, all contorted and covered in black fur. He has these huge curled horns, and he grabs and eats people too. Of course, he doesn't come at Christmas; his day is December 5th. Still, I wouldn't go out of my way to draw his attention by getting into trouble!"

There was silence, then an uncomfortable chuckle from Carter. "Well, I'm sure glad that Krampus guy didn't show up! And I guess we really DID luck out, what with Mrs. Schultz sending everyone new socks, so that Yule Cat won't get us! Boy, and I thought my grandfather could come up with some scary stories! That's even scarier than his story about Grandmother Spider! Of course, she wasn't Sioux, I don't think, but she sure as heck was scary!"


	4. Lookin' for Lunch in all the Wrong Places

In the guard barracks now occupied only by (well, supposedly occupied only by) Acting-Sergeant Krempts, the growls and snarls and outright curses filled the air. 

The Yule Lads were furious at their fun being spoiled! How were they supposed to scare everyone now after that busybody spilled the beans?? Oh, they could still go about their usual business, but now these men would be EXPECTING them, wouldn't jump at the noise or the odd shadows, wouldn't start quarrelling amongst themselves over things going missing! WHAT a disappointment! Not only that, the men would probably be expecting candy to be left out for them and they hadn't brought any along. They'd always thought that was a silly thing anyway and always gobbled what was apportioned to them for that purpose as soon as it arrived. Well, EVERYONE was naughty SOMETIMES, after all!

The huge Yule Cat was even more furious; it had been looking forward to a veritable feast - an entire camp full of men who were NOT likely to be receiving any new clothes (though they obviously NEEDED them!), now totally out of reach! It was halfway inclined to follow after that interferring Sergeant Schultz and his far-too-industrious wife and teach them to go butting into its business, but the gloomy thought occurred that Mrs. Schultz was unlikely to have omitted the Sergeant from her 'new socks' list, and that unknown 'friend' had probably seen that Mrs. Schultz got her own new pair. 

It snarled up at Acting-Sergeant Krempts. "If people would just mind their own business! I'm HUNGRY!" it complained. "You PROMISED us a feast!"

Acting-Sergeant Krempts, AKA Krampus, nodded glumly; well, he was in full agreement with all the sentiments being expressed. 

After all, it was most inconvenient! He'd delayed his usual travel plans for December 5th in order to bring the Yule Lads and the Yule Cat along with him, just because Gryla had decided then that she wanted some 'alone time', whatever the blazes that was! And, no, it hadn't been 'convenient' for her for them to be gone during the first few days in December - she had 'other plans', though not bothering to share those with him! 

Those modern womens' magazines could cause all kinds of problems, creating odd yearnings after things women never used to even THINK about, along with a disturbingly-independent vein of thought, he was finding out! Well, just take that 'Girls' Night Out' Gryla had gone on with LaBefana, the Italian witch, and Baba Yaga, the Russian one! Gryla came home two days later with a mighty hangover and a massive case of indigestion, refusing to attend to the house or the meals until she recovered. Still, Krampus had to admit the new recipes for lasagna and borscht somewhat offset the nasty mood their own witch carried around til she recovered from her over-indulgence.

Now, having long bypassed his usual visiting day of December 5th, Krampus found himself at a loss. What rules were involved after such a delay? Was he still allowed to create a little mayhem, maybe grab a few snacks? Maybe if it was for the purpose of sharing with the Lads and the Cat? Sharing was good, at least he'd heard so, but was he SUPPOSED to be 'good'? Sometimes things got SO confusing! He really DID long for the good old days when things were so much simpler!

Sighing, he drew his curled horns down under the white wig, pulled the human skin up to cover his black furry form, and went out to see what he could find in the way of a buffet dinner for fifteen. After all, once everyone got back home and started complaining, Gryla would probably bash him upside the head for taking them out and not feeding them properly. Even if she WAS a witch, the mothering instinct was still there, you know. Sometimes he wondered if moving in with the lot of them was really worth it, even for the home cooking.

Newkirk and Carter were sharing a smoke on a bench outside the barracks, accompanied by Ollie. Yes, it was after lights-out, close to midnight actually, and they should have been inside, but Carter was having one of his more claustrophobic evenings, and things were quiet. Hogan was off at Klink's quarters humoring the sick man with a game of chess, not a guard in sight, so Newkirk figured they could risk it, and Ollie had asked to come along. 

They'd been startled to see the hulking figure of Acting-Sergeant Krempts lumbering around the corner. The shadows seemed to turn that now-familiar figure into something quite different, and that oddly-predatory smile on his mottled and distorted face had done nothing to ease their minds. 

That was, of course, before Krempts pulled off his helmet and hair, letting those huge horns show in all their glory. The ripping away and discarding of any human appearance had them leaping for the door, only to find the monsterous figure between them and any avenue of safety.

A small voice piped up, full of admonishment and annoyance. The three men drew their astonished gazes away from the nightmare in front of them, down to the small figure, knee-high to Newkirk, no taller, dressed in a shabby red tunic and trousers, his tiny feet bare against the cold ground. 

Ollie's mouth dropped open as he recognized the small creature for what he was - a Tómte, just as his mother had always described the helpful little guardians to be.

The rough voice emerging from the small red-capped man was much more powerful than you'd have expected, with no give or lack of resolution.

"Here, what do you, Krampus? Not for your eating, these. NONE of those here are for that. My daughter Hilma's boy, Ólafur, is of ALL things not for your eating. Swore me I was to protect him, she did, from the Wild Things such as yourself. Not everything can I do, but this I can. Past, is your time, anyway. Thwarted is your bedamned Cat, your Lads also. Take them, go, find somewhere else for them to feed. This place is no longer allowed, either this night or any other night, nor even during a daytime. This I say. And for you, for your hunting? I would suggest a calendar, that you might mark your day better!"

And though Krampus glowered and roared into the night, making the rooftops shudder and Klink once again start complaining about all the noise - although he gnashed his green-stained teeth and stomped his feet, the little grey Tómte held his ground, narrow arms folded resolutely over his chest, long shaggy white beard blowing in the night breeze. 

Well, he was right; December 5th was long past, and Krampus had no choice but to abide by the rules - at least, once they were tossed in his face like that. And once a Tómte claimed a territory, he or she had a power to protect that territory far beyond what their size might indicate. Not against everything, no, that was sadly true. Not against humans, either wily or evil or simply stupid. But against some things, yes, and Krampus and his kind were among those.

And then he was gone, the foul beast, bellowing a harsh summons, and from the guards' barracks came a row of muttering, slinking creatures, thirteen in all, followed by a huge black cat pulling that large dufflebag by the strings caught up in its teeth. 

An impatient wave of his hand and the thirteen Yule Lads and the Yule Cat all crawled into the bag, and the Krampus slung it over his shoulder and made his sullen way out of camp, never to return. Woe betide the next ones they met, though, ones who knew not what to say to turn them away, for they were in no mood to be generous. Well, in truth, they never were in such a mood.

Ollie looked at the little man, swallowed hard and whispered, "you know, when mother used to tell us stories about her father, about how he was a Tómte and would protect us from the Wild Things? I never really thought she was telling the truth; I thought she was just making up a fun bedtime story. The first thing I'm going to do when I get home, Grandfather, is apologize to her!"

Newkirk and Carter stood there, looking at their new barracks-mate and his grandfather silently. Well, words really did escape them, at least at that moment. Both were more than a little glad it was THEIR barracks Ollie had ended up in, of course, though the continued presence of the Tómte was a little disconcerting, especially since the small figure seemed to be intent on staying at Ollie's side.

"Uh, Ollie? I know he's your grandfather and all, but how do we explain him to Colonel Hogan? I mean, really, explain ALL of this to the Colonel," Carter asked, getting an incredulous silent stare from Newkirk. 

{"Explain all this to the Colonel? Ei, like to see that 'appen! Or, rather, really DON'T want to see that 'appen! Gonna 'ave us both in straitjackets before we can finish the tale, more than likely!"}

Ollie raised a questioning brow down at the small figure standing at his knee, getting a slightly-wicked grin in return. Newkirk and Carter could now see a strong familial resemblance.

"Oh, your Colonel will not even know I'm about, grandson. Will stick to the shadows, I will, for the time we are here, you and I, for I will not be leaving without you. But a word to the wise. Keep your distance from THAT one as well, the Colonel Hogan; more human yes, not truly one of the Wild Things, your Colonel, not exactly, but not so far from it - much closer than these others, certainly. That he is perhaps both? That limits what I can do to shield you, so you must remain on guard yourself. If you doubt me, ask that one," jerking his head in Newkirk's direction. "He knows well enough of what I speak."

Somehow the bleak, uncomfortable look on Newkirk's face made that unnecessary, along with the grim look on Carter's, and Ollie resolved to do exactly as his grandfather recommended.

Carter hastened to fill the strained silence. "Uh, well, while you're here, what can we do to make you comfortable? What do you eat, where will you sleep? You just let us know! We'll do whatever we can," he offered eagerly.

The Tómte nodded in friendly appreciation of the offer, but assuring Carter that "for myself can I tend. Still, a grain or two of tobacco would be a pleasing thing, for I seem to have mislaid my pouch and pipe. Perhaps a drop of something stronger than water at times."

And so it was that Andrew Carter was seen making, of all things, a miniature meershaum, taking great care in the carving. And anyone seeing Peter Newkirk, confirmed addict to tobacco in any form, setting aside one cigarette from every new pack he opened, leaving it in that tiny slit in the wall, would have been astonished not only at the odd action itself, but at the speed with which that cigarette disappeared, almost as if by magic. And the first of any moonshine pulled from that hidden still was deposited into a small bottle Andrew had scavanged from his laboratory - it might not be GOOD liquor, but it was certainly stronger than water!

Epilogue:

On Christmas morning, the crew awoke to a cheery Andrew Carter warbling 'Santa Claus is Comin' to Town!'. Well, that was pretty much typical Andrew. 

What wasn't so typical? The response from Peter Newkirk, not the usual 'shut it, Andrew, we're trying to sleep!', or something far worse. 

No, from their irascible Englishman only came a resigned, "well, at least it's only Santa Claus! Could be a 'ell of a lot worse, come to think on it!"

And if Hogan and Kinch and Olsen and LeBeau wondered at that odd comment, they decided to just accept it and be glad that Newkirk was in a somewhat better frame of mind. Carter and Ollie? They just exchanged a knowing look and nodded, fully in agreement with that sentiment being expressed by their irrascible barracks-mate.

**Author's Note:**

> Goniff (from Garrison's Gorillas) makes an entrance by brief mention only.
> 
> And yes, I've taken some liberties with some of the 'guests', but that seems only fair considering the liberties I take with some of the residents on a regular basis.


End file.
